


Unintended

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He says this is always how he and Mike used to...well, ‘make love’ isn’t the phrase you’re looking for, but you get the picture</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unintended

Crosses on his wrist, pale and silvery and years old and he’ll tell you he doesn’t do it any more but you run your fingers over the new, raised scars on his thighs as you fuck him into the mattress.

Oh yes, and you lap at them with your tongue as if to soothe the old wounds. He moans, grips the back of your hair roughly and gasps out “I don’t need to do it any more.”

You call him a liar and bite down on his hip bone.

Brad is like a road accident; tragic and sad but he’s got everyone’s attention. Sitting on the low couch of his apartment, strumming his guitar, everyone can see the crosses on his wrists. He says “Take a photo, it lasts longer.” For once he’s lost for words when Joe whips out his Polaroid and takes a picture.

You lean over and kiss them softly when nobody is looking. You know he hates them. But you know he hates Mike’s jealous scrutiny of you both even more.

***

You’re rehearsing. Everyone is there, playing hard and you grip you microphone until your knuckles are white. The room is dark and all around you people are bumping into each other. More than once Mike stood on your foot, but you know that’s because he hates you, not because he didn’t see you.

You grab the megaphone that Rob was playing with and belch in his face through it. Everybody is laughing and Mike tells you “grow up, Chester.”

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Sophistication. Have you seen Brad?”

A flustered, over exaggerated flailing of his arms “He’s...somewhere.” Then he’s away talking to Dave about something you’re not interested in.

The thing with Mike is like this – he loves Brad. They were together when you first joined the band, but Mike’s a sadistic asshole and Brad isn’t willing to be pushed around. After two years of being bullied, Brad ended it, and that night you went round to his house and held him as he cried quietly saying over and over “I loved him, I loved him so much.”

Now Brad loves you. Or at least he tells you he does. You don’t want him to tell you if it’s a lie, you’d rather be starry-eyed than alone.

“Brad?” You call through your megaphone, and he’s instantaneously by your side. You stroke his face gently, the hand clutching the megaphone hanging loosely by your side. You say “You look sad today, baby.”

“I’m tired,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch, “I’m tired and Mike’s like –” he pulls a face and closes his eyes.

You tell everyone Brad doesn’t feel to good and could we call it a day? Nobody minds, everybody is sick of each other by this time anyway.

You drive him home and almost crash when he leans over and kisses your neck, his hands slipping into your pants.

***

You have sex, of course you do, and his scarred arms are wrapped tight around your neck and he’s urging you deeper. He says this is always how he and Mike used to...well, ‘make love’ isn’t the phrase you’re looking for, but you get the picture. He says it was always hard and fast and everything he needed.

You’ve noticed Brad bleeds a lot more when you don’t have sex. He walks around in long sleeved shirts as if you don’t know what’s beneath them. Then you fuck, teeth and nails and fists, and everything seems to get better.

***

It’s the birthday party you threw for him and everyone is drinking to get drunk and loving every minute of it. Rob does a line off the kitchen table and stands up, eyes wide and pupils dilated, he grins over and leans back against Joe who is pressed up against him.

You look for Brad.

Mike is sitting on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table and you want to slap the smug look from his face. Claw marks on his neck, dried blood like dirt and he winks at you.

You go to question him, but decide you don’t want to know.

The back yard is dark except for the few candles you littered across the patio. The flames flicker and casts shadows across the figure sitting on the ground staring at the sky.

“Brad.”

He doesn’t turn around, just mutters “I wish I may, I wish I might.”

Sitting beside him, beer in hand, you say “Yeah, yeah, we’re not five any more.”

He inspects his hands, nodding absently. You don’t even flicker at the sight of dry blood beneath his nails, on his finger tips...

“Did you fuck him?” You had to ask.

“Yeah.”

“Did it make you feel better?” You can’t stop yourself.

“No.”

A long pause and there’s music pulsing behind you in doors. You say, “good.”

Push yourself to your feet, empty your beer, and in the darkness you can see Brad’s scars clear as day.


End file.
